


Drabble Collection

by RussianWitch



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), RED (Movies), The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Crossover, Drabble Collection, Gen, Geography, Multi, Writing Exercise
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-15
Updated: 2018-03-03
Packaged: 2019-02-15 03:01:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13021863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RussianWitch/pseuds/RussianWitch
Summary: Short scenes various will be added to as they get written.





	1. Moscow

**Author's Note:**

> not beta'd  
> experimental  
> tags will be added on the go

He thinks back on M's unease, waiting in the agonizingly slow-moving Customs line in Sheremetyevo. Out of the 20 booths, only three are open, and everyone is carefully inspected. M, doesn't want him to be here, doesn't trust the individual with whom James is to make contact. Whomever the person is, is a relic from the 1990's of questionable usefulness. He's curious to see the person who's managed to force M's hand, demanding a senior agent come and make contact and assess the situation.

Playing the bored businessman, he takes his time admiring the young customs agent who speeds past wearing 4-inch bright red heels, and a stern expression, both matching the uniform and giving the customs agent who checks his passport and visa along with the name of the inner city hotel where he will not be staying past check-in. 

He takes his time collecting his bags after, stopping in the far corner next to the toilets for a smoke, smiling politely and mimicking incomprehension when he's addressed by fellow travelers. 

By the time he's collected his bag, a swarthy man with too much gold jewelry has designated himself his new best friend after remembering a few, barely comprehensible, words in English. The bag checkers ignore two businessmen in jovial conversation in favor of a twitchy young woman walking behind them with a backpack almost as big as she herself. 

Out in the hall, there is a mess of welcoming relatives and taxi drivers looking for customers, between whom James slips away from his new friend heading for the E terminal heading for the Aeroexpress train. 

The first class compartment is empty when he boards, and stays empty after the train pulls away from the station. The dirty grey of the airport hotels gives way to patches of snowy white fields, with derelict looking houses here and there, turning into settlements of five-story buildings, then twelve storied flats, white snow turning into grey and black chunks heaped next to the black tarmac that makes the sidewalks and car lanes both. 

He's never had much of an opinion about Russia professionally, the job hadn't required one by the time he'd come up. He speaks the language, somewhat imperfectly, but sufficiently for surveillance operations—and recovery missions. 

The train pulls into the station, and James passes through the crowded mint green building, taking a breath filled with exhaust fumes and cold as soon as he clears the building, turning left and descending into the Metro, following the signs to the green line which will take him into the very heart of Moscow. 


	2. Sokol

He strolls from his 'official' hotel towards the Red Square, ignoring the shambles of old and new buildings along with the potholes in the asphalt, curses the 12 lanes of impatient traffic along with the other pedestrians circling the heart of the city with suppressed curiosity. 

Once upon a time, the Kremlin might have been a target, or it's visitors at the very least, now it serves as covers as he circles it, towards the Bolshoi theatre and the metro entrance there. Down in the bowels of the city, the icy cold turns into wet heat, the breeze that precedes the trains a welcome relief in the crowd. 

James sticks out like a sore thumb, a head taller than most of the crowd, he lets two trains pass watching the crowd ebb and flow, pushing into the train car with the rest of the commuters once the third train has stopped. He wedges himself into a  corner in front of the opposing doors. 

A pretty woman leans against him, soft and warm against his side, home he might have at least made a comment about getting friendly, now he lets his eyes roam across the crowded cart, reading the titles on the magazines and newspapers. 

James watches the darkness outside the train cart windows, following the thick wiring running along the tunnel wall keeping his mind carefully blank. Thirty minutes pass faster than expected, a pleasant female voice announcing each of the six stations in turn. 

He elbows his way out of the train on Sokol, leaving the metro and exiting the underpass onto the Leningradskij boulevard, turning away from the busy looking wall and heading back in the direction he came from above ground, along imposing, gloomy looking flats and official looking buildings. 

The Churchill`s Pub makes him wince internally, the bright red phone booth by the entrance and cheery blue and white façade looking surreal among the heavy stone of Stalinist architecture. Inside the 'pub' looks like any other tourist trap bar, made up of pretty stereotypes and overpriced beer. He chooses a booth with clear sightlines and orders a beer, takes out his phone as if to check messages. 

"Jimmy, сколько лет, сколько зим!" An older voice booms across the room, and a tall, white-haired man steps up to the booth, dragging James up and into a bear hug. Three cheek kisses later, he's released and pushed back into his seat as the man turns to the waitress and orders himself a drink. 

He's even taller than James originally thought, mid-seventies or possibly order, in very good condition, wiry and broad-shouldered. There are a lot of frown lines on his face, but his eyes are clear, his hands gnarled, swollen knuckles betraying a turbulent youth. The simple white shirt and black suit under the heavy leather coat are more expensive than they look, but the cap he casually throws on the table looks to have been bought from one of the kiosks that pepper every street corner and fill the underpasses. 

"I did expect to see you sooner, after..." He trails off casually, and his guest smirks. 

"Gareth's wedding, da?" Keeping his movements slow, he reaches for his suit jacket pocket, to pull out a pen which he hands over casually while accepting his drink, "Historical item, you recognize it, of course?" 


	3. Otradnoje

They leave the grey cocoon of the metro station, stepping onto the wide, potholed boulevard surrounded by towering walls of flats blocking off the horizon. Ducking through an arch, James follows Illya, as the man introduced himself, along the long row of entrances, noting how the old man avoided the pale puddles of light from the few street lanterns, keeping to the shadows until they get to the entrance with a large number 2 on the side.  

James isn't shown the code to the door, not that the lock would be particularly hard to break. A short stair leads up to the first floor and two dinky looking elevators. 

"Don't touch walls, if can help it," Illya tells him with a smirk, pushing the button for the tenth floor. The elevator shakes and squeals as it works its way up. 

"Lifts like this, good for religion. Make man think of his mortality," he notes, with almost malicious relish that makes James wish he'd acquired another gun. 

"Does it?" He asks, considering the man's age and what he's almost sure was his former occupation. 

"Not you," Illya says, "you are more than aware of it." 

"Everyone dies," James shrugs, unkindly wondering what the point is living long enough to—Illya doesn't seem to be hurting but the surroundings, the thought of ending up in a council flat on an estate somewhere, useless and decrepit, it doesn't bear thinking about. 

The corridor needs a paint job, there are two doors, and a dark staircase behind the elevators, one of the doors, is covered with imitation leather, the other is gray steel. Illya opens three locks, and lets James into a small hallway, with two more doors off of it where he knows enough to leave his shoes and coat. 

Entering the apartment reminds him of watching a magic trick where the magician changes clothing in an instant or shifts the box so that the rabbit disappears from sight. 

Behind the leather upholstered door the apartment, it looks—ordinary by James' standards, a place he wouldn't object to living. The walls of the narrow hallways are white, and the build in closets have doors made of light wood which matches the wooded parquet on the floor.  

"Would you like tea?" Illya throws over his shoulder, carelessly turning the corner into a small kitchen. 

"No, thank you I prefer to get to the point," his gun hand is still itching, even with Illya's back turned. 

"An Englishman who doesn't like tea, curious," the man says pulling a mug out of the wall cabinet, and turning on the electric kettle, "you'll be more comfortable sitting down in the living room," he judges, waving towards the hall, "the first door." 

The living room is less stark than James would have expected considering the hall and kitchen, one of the walls is filled with books, another with records and CD's, a large flat screen takes up half a wall and James suspects there must be a stereo installation hidden somewhere.  

It's the bookcase that interests him, the titles in both Russian and English with some French and German here and there, he picks the book with the least amount of dust in front. 

The Wizard of Oz, an old copy, and American edition at that, it falls open on its own to a photograph hidden between the pages. 

A man and woman on their wedding day, arms around each other, obviously affectionate, and the younger version of Illya to the side, not quite frowning, but obviously not happy. 

"They beautiful, no?" The Russian asks from behind him, a large steaming mug in his hand. 

"Friends of yours?" He asks, closing the book and returning it to its proper place. 

"Family, many years ago," he folds into a worn chair, "I have—lost touch." There is obviously more to the story than that, but James doesn't ask any further. Every one of them has a painful story in their distant past, or not so distant.  

"I'm sorry, now, you contacted M?" He prompts, focusing on work. 


	4. Vondelpark

1971 

The park in the middle of Amsterdam has been drawing all sorts for weeks if not months, groups forming and dispersing, tents and sleeping bags everywhere, music coming from a dozen different radios, the air sweet and sharp with smoke and the scent of roses. 

Napoleon is the one who sticks out for once, his summer-weight suit and carefully knotted die drawing sneers and mocking calls from the youth lounging on the grass around the ponds and along the paths. 

Illya, once Gaby confiscates his cap and disappears it to the bottom of her purse, could be mistaken for a native in a t-shirt and worn blue jeans, glaring condescendingly at the strolling couples dressed in their Sunday best. 

Gaby looks—lovely as ever in a short wrap dress, and sandals, with flowers in her hair. She insists they walk with their arms around each other with her in the middle practically getting smothered, her arms around their waists. 

Following the paths in the north-eastern direction, they circle the ponds, watching the youth lounging around on the grass and the older city dwellers out for a stroll, enjoying the warmth of summer.  

Napoleon steers them in the general direction of the teahouse in the middle of the park, conveniently situated on the way to their mission target across the canal from the north-eastern entrance to the park. 

The Weteringschans is going to be a challenge, one Napoleon is not looking forward to since no one has managed to escape in all the years the prison has operated. They have the right papers, and Napoleon is fairly confident his Dutch is adequate, so getting in will not be a problem, for both him and Gabi. 

It will be up to Illya to get them out, once they have their target and the accompanying suitcase of missile plans in hand. 

Had the accent not been an issue, Napoleon would have happily switched places with Peril, having no need what so ever to see the insides of this particular prison again. He doesn't want to think about getting caught and locked up there again.  

Illya doesn't even look at the tea house as they pass, but Gabi drags them further, untangling herself from them when a particular group calls out to her. She kneels on the grass cheerfully accepting hugs and a rather fragrant cigarette, grinning up at Napoleon and Illya, blowing smoke rings towards the clear blue sky and getting acquainted.  

From the corner of his eye, Napoleon catches Illya's frown darkening further. The Russian bites his bottom lip, and Napoleon knows Peril wants to object. The hash smells good enough that he's tempted to join Gabi on the grass, since they are still hours from the actual break-in and if Illya could be tempted as well...The Russian looks away, glaring at the bushes across the path which are moving rather rhythmically like he's considering attacking them. Illya has been doing a lot of glaring lately, more than the norm as far as Napoleon is concerned. Gabi had been after him to make Illya talk since he'd shut even her out. 

"Peril?" He asks under his breath, nodding at an elderly woman wrinkling her nose at the gathering on the grass.  

"She risks unnecessary," Illya grumbles, his hand tapping out a slow rhythm against his leg. 

"She's having fun," Napoleon counters, "remember fun?" 

"Fun for children, we are on job," the Russian snaps, but doesn't move to extract Gabi from the group. 

"We aren't on the job yet," Napoleon steps closer, sliding his hands into his pockets to resist the urge to close them around Illya's twitching hand.  

"We always on the job," Illya counters, his hand trembling harder, "when we not—," Napoleon had noticed their missions drying up, countries getting more territorial with their intelligence...Waverly brushed him off when Napoleon brought it up.  

"Illya—," he doesn't quite know how to reassure his partner, Gabi is far better at it than him... 

"Marry Gabi," Illya says out of the blue, making Napoleon doubt his hearing. 

"Pardon?" 

"You must marry Gabi," Illya repeats slowly, looking like the words physically hurt, balling his hand into a trembling fist, "make her American citizen."  

"Did you try one of those cigarettes Gabi is enjoying without me noticing?" He demands quietly, turning to look back at Gabi who's already watching them over her sunglasses, "and more importantly is she aware you're planning her future?" It wouldn't be the first time Illya tries to control Gabi's life. Sometimes, it amuses Napoleon to see Illya try despite every attempt resulting in a spectacular fight Napoleon's Russian has never been quite sufficient to follow, and the two of them not speaking for a day or two. None of the fights had been over choices of the magnitude of marriage...  

"All other considerations aside, why now all of a sudden?" He demands, fear chilling him to the bone despite the heat of the afternoon sun. 

"I am—recalled," Illya finally looks him in the eyes, "reporting in Moscow after end mission. Gabi is GDR citizen..." He trails off meaningfully. Napoleon winces, the thought of Gabi being forced to return to East-Berlin, or more likely to accompany Illya to Moscow... The thought of Gabi in the hands of the Stasi or KGB—, the thought of Illya back under the thumb of his former masters, is intolerable. 

"Does Waverly know?" He demands, smiling at Gabi like everything is fine. She doesn't buy it, starting to untangle herself from her new friends at once. 

"Yes," Illya nods, not really surprising, and yet, Napoleon may have expected more after a decade of loyal service. 

"And you will? Go back that is?" He asks, wondering why Waverly hasn't mentioned any of this. There had been talk of expansion, despite the difficulties with territoriality, of getting them out of the field and training the next generation of agents... 

"It is my duty," Illya shrugs, "not hers." He adds helpfully. 

Before Napoleon can protest, Gabi is back, throwing her arms around them. 

"What are you boys talking about?" She asks, tone promising injury if they leave her out of the loop. 

"Can't decide between visiting the Rosarium, and dancing in the nuclear bunker," he tells her, Illya playing along, his face twisting into a grimace that aims to communicate indecision, but fails miserably. 

"Bullshit!" She growls, making both of them wince, "tell me!" 

"When decided," Illya growls back, and Napoleon is forced to step between them to keep the conversation from turning physical. 

"We can talk about it tonight when we are done!" He orders, turning their anger at himself, "now let's go to the bunker, I feel like dancing, don't you?" He takes Gabi in his arms, twirling her along the path a couple of times skillfully avoiding other pedestrians. 

She remains tense in his arms, unwilling to be distracted, even when Illya joins them, cutting in and the young on the lawn start applauding extricating herself from them and marching off, leaving them to follow as she circles the pond, towards the grandiose pavilion on the other side instead of either of the locations Napoleon would prefer. 

One haughty glance at the waiter guarding the entrance to the stone terrace, and her is being lead to a table in the corner, the waiter visibly relaxing once he catches sight of Napoleon. 

Around them, businessmen out to lunch fail to mask envious looks in Napoleon's direction. 

"Tell me!" She demands, once their orders have been written up. 

"Illya caught too much sun today, I think you're going to give that monstrosity of his back," Napoleon sighs and gets kicked in the ankle, for his efforts. 

"Auw," he complains, catching Illya's hand under the table and dragging it up for Gabi to see; it's still trembling. 

"What happened?" She asks, reaching over to cover their hands with her own. 

This, Napoleon thinks, is how they are supposed to be: holding on to each other, propping each other up. That Illya is alright with leaving, feels like a betrayal of the worst kind. 

"I am recalled to Russia," Illya sighs, pushing both their hands away, folding his arms across his chest with a mulish look, "I leave after mission."  

"You planned to leave after the mission?" Gabi demands, "were you even going to tell me?"

"You know now, orders," Illya sighs like that explains everything. Orders, which will take him away from his beloved jazz clubs and avant-garde exhibits, orders which could mean leaving behind the library he'd assembled in his apartment instead of furnishing it like a normal human being, forcing Napoleon and Gabi to step in and save him from himself  buying him a couch and actual bed, away from— _them_.  

"Don't you want to stay?" he asks, painted by twin looks of incomprehension he gets from the two Soviets. 

"What I want not relevant, I must do duty." The Russian repeats, deliberately looking away, "if you marry Gabi—," he ignores the foul curse thrown at his head, looking only at Napoleon, "she becomes American and..." 

"What makes you think I'd marry him?!" Gabi demands, "or anyone for that matter?"  

"Do you _want_ to see House 1, or Lubyanka?" Illya counters and Gabi pales sitting back, going pale under her tan. Napoleon wonders who she's more scared of? The Stasi or KGB? 

"That—," she tries to deny but Illya interrupts her. 

"You swore you wouldn't go back!" Illya snaps, "you been working for enemy almost ten years!" He hisses like an angry cat. "They will want to be sure you are _not_ an agent under Cowboy's control, or anyone else's!"  

"Won't they do the same to you?" Napoleon asks as Gabi digests the threat. 

"I still KGB," Illya shrugs as if that will save him misery.

"And you think they can't break you!" Napoleon accuses, which only makes Illya shrug, "that's your plan, isn't it? Exchange yourself for them leaving Gabi alone!" She glares at him, but for once doesn't object that she can take care of herself. 

"It's good plan," Illya tells him, "you marry, Gabi becomes American, live her life." 

Napoleon wants to grab him by the lapels and scream in his face because there is nothing 'good' about this plan what so ever. 

"Illya you can't!" Gabi rips her sunglasses off, taking his hand again, her hand disappearing in Illya's paw, "maybe Waverly can do something..."  

"He won't," Napoleon sighs, "if Illya doesn't return, the Soviets will pull out of the U.N.C.L.E. agreement and there is too much at stake to allow that to happen."  

"It's Illya!" Gabi looks at him like he's some kind of monster, but Illya only nods. 

Sometimes he forgets just how young she is, how innocent even after everything they have been through together. Gabi had never been political, never cared for the shades of grey Napoleon and Illya both took for granted. 

"You make a good couple," Illya smiles grimly like everything has been decided already and the conversation is over, "let's go to nuclear bunker." He changes the topic, pointing over his shoulder with his thumb, "it seems—fitting." 

"Will you dance with me?" She demands, "since we still have time?"  


	5. Tesla Airport Belgrade

He hadn't had the energy to bother with upgrading his ticket, choosing to use the one Q-section provided. That's how he ends up in Belgrade with a four-hour transfer and sitting at a shoddy bar drinking lukewarm beer. 

"Bond," a man greets, settling on the barstool next to him and ordering another beer. 

"Cooper," he doesn't bother to do more than glance in the American's direction.  

"Back from the dead again I see," Cooper frowns at his beer like it contains the secrets of the universe. 

"On vacation?" He regrets leaving his gun in the safehouse now. 

"I'm not working, if that's what you're asking," the man says, "been reassigned." 

"Good to hear," it isn't that he wouldn't be able to handle Cooper, but he's tired and still aching. 

"I've been promoted to handler," Cooper shares bitterness dripping from every word. 

"You?" That makes him look up, taking in Cooper's wrinkled suit, and the make-up concealing extensive bruising of a cheekbone, "a handler?" The thought is laughable, it's like promoting James himself—something no sane individual would do. 

"We had an 'incident'," shoving his glass to the side, Cooper rubs his face roughly, "Moses."  

That bit of information is almost enough for James to ask for the full story, Cooper's glare makes him take another sip of his drink instead. 

"I thought he'd retired?" He asks instead, wondering if any of them ever manage to retire completely. 

"Didn't stick, now the Company wants someone to keep an eye out," which sounds—terrifying when James gives it some thought. 

"My sympathies," he shoves the beer aside, ordering the best whiskey the bar has for both of them, "what did you do?" 

They've both been on the wrong end of disciplinary measures before, but keeping an eye out on former agents seems excessive even to James. 

"He at least I get to travel! See the Belgrade Museum of Aviation!" James had forgotten about that, a metal and glass spherical structure. 

"It's still standing?" He vaguely remembers passing documents there to the people on the ground during the Kosovo bombings, wondering how the place was still standing after the Bosnian war.  

"They have a Nighthawk wreck now, and a Predator drone," Cooper shares gloomily. 

"You can always go freelance?" James offers, "or die?" 

"Would you shoot me?" Cooper asks, to James' amusement, " trust me when I say it would be a mercy."   


	6. Paris

Ljosha Bogdanovich Turchin doesn't like a lot of people, but that's alright, he isn't supposed to. What he's supposed to be is useful, useful to people who are liked by others, others high in the party structure, in the underworld too, at the edges of society.

Berlin, Budapest, Odessa when it's needed, everyone knows Ljosha and that he's the man to ask for certain favors. After all, he's got contacts everywhere, and if you pay enough can get anything.

There are others, of course, there always are, and Ljosha doesn't mind the competition, it makes the game more fun.

He's in Paris, drinking beer in a little cafe near the steps that lead to the Sacre-Coeur, enjoying the early spring sunshine, not thinking about much of anything when someone blocks his sun.

"Mr. Turchin?" The dark haired man asks, "Bond, James Bond, Universal Exports, your secretary mentioned I could find you," he smiles, a smile meant to put at ease, a smile Ljosha doesn't believe for a second.

"Ah, I remember, wasn't expecting you until tomorrow at the earliest," by which time Alec was planning on being halfway to Monaco, "come sit down, weather like this shouldn't be wasted."

"I would prefer to get down to business," the too neat man says, clearly not pleased by Ljosha's intention to enjoy the afternoon.

"I bet you would, but that's not how things work around here,"  especially with Universal Exports sniffing around.

"It is a matter of some urgency," Bond mentions, giving in, taking a seat and getting out of Ljosha's sun, "Marion and Tanner insist, I'm afraid."

The names, he doesn't want to hear them. They remind him of things he'd prefer to forget, things he doesn't have to think about in Paris, Berlin or Budapest, like his actual damn job. 


End file.
